


A Methodological Dispute

by ineptshieldmaid, Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Geeky, Humour, M/M, academic jokes, science jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur is around, the portions of Eames that have the casting vote tend to be the portions that think making a smart-mouthed reply is more important than getting your leg over. 'Okay, well, answer me this,' he says, 'how is it in any way a scientific experiment for me to sleep with you?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Methodological Dispute

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, what happened here is that Trojie and Inept had a hilarious mental image of Arthur telling Eames to sleep with him for SCIENCE, and Eames insisting that he would only sleep with Arthur for PHILOSOPHY. Shortly afterwards, there was nearly two thousand words of cracky banter and a bit of smut.

‘Arthur, why is it so unlikely that you could possibly be aroused?’ Eames asks, pulling back from Arthur’s neck, which is, he notes, looking pleasingly bruised already.

‘What?’ Arthur mumbles, scrabbling at Eames’ shirt-front with his free hand.

‘You're the first person I have ever known to make noises like that and then shove his hand in his _pocket_ and not in his _underpants_.’ Eames disentangles himself and leans back against the table.

‘I’m just checking,’ Arthur says, looking disgruntled.

‘Do I not look real enough for you?’ Eames asks. Arthur, apparently satisfied, withdraws his hand from his pocket, and declines to answer. Instead, he follows Eames, crowding up against Eames’ thighs and resting his hands on the table behind Eames’ arse.

‘Eames, have sex with me,’ Arthur says, and licks his way up the shell of Eames’ ear.

‘Why?’ Eames asks, genuinely curious. Arthur's eyes narrow, and Eames realises that actually, he should be asking 'How?' Or possibly 'Where are the condoms?' It’s just that - well, to be honest, Eames hadn’t expected Arthur to respond so enthusiastically to Eames’ attempt to snog him senseless. A solid right hook to the jaw seemed, ten minutes ago, more likely than Arthur’s hands in Eames’ hair and Arthur’s tongue in Eames’ mouth, and yet - here they are. Eames should really not be questioning his good fortune.

'It's a scientific experiment,' Arthur says, after a moment.

That … is not exactly the answer Eames was expecting. Normally people say things like 'because you're so attractive I want to lick you all over.' And because apparently Eames cannot actually come up with any appropriate follow-up to Arthur's answer, he says, 'In what way? I'm pretty sure all the mechanics have been worked out already.'

Arthur answers that with a squint worthy of Cobb. 'Are you seriously doing this?' he asks, forehead wrinkling. He still hasn't moved his hands from behind Eames' arse - in fact, now they are considerably closer - although he's pulled back enough that the full effect of the squint is brought to bear on Eames, who is stuck somewhere between the rock of intellectual curiosity and his libido, which is, without wishing to be amusing, a very hard place indeed right now, and getting quite conflicted.

'Doing what?' he asks. What _is_ he doing? He should have Arthur’s trousers off by now, and one or both of their mouths occupied with something other than ridiculous questions.

Arthur's expression is now worryingly reminiscent of the face he makes when he's assessing the best way to take out a target. This should not be as pants-tighteningly attractive as it is. 'Cockblocking yourself,' Arthur says, tightening his hands about Eames' arse and drawing them tighter together. 'And me, into the picture, which I warn you is not a sensible move,' he adds.

Portions of Eames would like him to give in and surrender to Arthur's bizarre seduction tactics by dragging him across the ten feet of floor between them and the bed and pinning him to the mattress. However, when Arthur is around, the portions of Eames that have the casting vote tend to be the portions that think making a smart-mouthed reply is more important than getting your leg over. 'Okay, well, answer me this,' he says, 'how is it in any way a scientific experiment for me to sleep with you?'

This is the unsexiest pre-sex conversation Eames has ever been party to. And the fact that it's with Arthur is just rubbing salt into the wound, because Eames had always rather assumed that if he and Arthur ever got around to this sort of thing, it would end in the kind of athletic shenanigans that porn directors would give limbs for. Not being ground up against the edge of a table debating whether or not they would be contributing significantly to the sum of human knowledge by having sex.

Arthur growls, and pushes closer. Eames can feel the heat of his body through the combined thicknesses of their trousers. 'We would be working on the age-old problem of whether or not it is a good idea to sleep with your coworkers,' he says. Just in case this is not a winning argument, apparently, he starts to undo the buttons of Eames's shirt.

Eames' body tells him to just shut up for once and taken what he's being given. Eames' mouth, however, says 'That would be an ethical dilemma, which falls under the heading of philosophical inquiry, not scientific.'

Arthur frowns and shakes his head (although he does not, Eames notes, stop working on Eames’ buttons). ‘I don't think I could be truly comfortable with my conclusions,’ Arthur explains, ‘unless proper scientific processes were followed. Repeat trials, for a start. Possibly some kind of null hypothesis should be involved, just so that we don't get all _post hoc_ about things. And we should keep proper documentation.’

‘Arthur, darling, is this a fetish of yours? Are you sure it's _me_ you want to sleep with, and not the scientific method?’

‘Repeatability is at the heart of science,’ Arthur says, finishing with Eames’ buttons and tugging the shirt off his shoulders. Eames, God help him, is finding this odd detachment kind of a turn-on. Arthur is a man who can remain calm in the face of gunfire, earthquakes, vengeful dead women, and, apparently, in the presence of a partially-naked and entirely aroused Eames. ‘And if I wanted to sleep with the scientific method,’ Arthur adds, turning his attention to Eames’ belt next, ‘this would involve about twenty people - ten men and ten women. And a control group I wouldn't sleep with.'

Eames raises an eyebrow, and shrugs the shirt entirely off, letting it drop to the floor. 'Are you saying you'll bias your sampling technique for me?' He goes for the knot of Arthur's tie, thinking to undo it, but then decides it's much more fun to just hang onto Arthur that way. 'That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard,' he drawls, rolling his eyes.

Arthur lets himself be reeled in just close enough to make Eames think that the snogging is about to commence, and then says, 'So will you sleep with me? In the interests of research?'

Saucy little minx.

Eames shunts himself off the table, starting to push Arthur back towards the bed. 'No,' he says airily. 'I couldn’t possibly participate in such unethical research.'

Arthur's hands are now extremely tight on Eames's arse. 'Fuck you, Eames,' he says, in that way he has that makes it difficult to decide if he means 'Fuck you, I'm going to shoot you in the face,' or 'Fuck you, literally, on the nearest convenient surface.'

In the interests of steering Arthur towards Option B rather than Option A, Eames, still moving towards the bed, says 'On the contrary - I find that I am moved to fuck _you_ , in the spirit of philosophical enquiry.'

Arthur becomes immovable very quickly. 'Wait - you won’t fuck me for _science_ , but you will fuck me for _philosophy_?'

‘Never had a chance to look at my undergraduate transcript, did you?’ Eames says, and takes advantage of Arthur’s stationary state to strip him of his waistcoat.

‘Which one?’ Arthur asks. ‘I’ve seen four, and they were all - uh.’ He stops, as Eames yanks his shirt out of his trousers and gets his hands on bare skin at last. ‘Forged,’ he finishes, voice husky and the muscles of his stomach fluttering against Eames’ hands.

‘Well, yes,’ Eames concedes. ‘But they all had at least a minor in philosophy, even the commerce degree. Business ethics, or some such.’

Arthur's shirt is now on the floor - Eames makes a point of kicking it to one side, which is better than getting it stood upon but not as good as picking it up and folding it properly, which is probably what Arthur would like him to do, and therefore, not going to happen. 'Are you trying to tell me,' Arthur asks, 'that you actually genuinely have some kind of non-criminal interest?'

'I'm wounded,' Eames says, pressing a hand to his heart and noting that they're almost at the edge of the bed. 'I also have a keen interest in Impressionist sculpture,' he adds.

'Yes, I know,' Arthur says drily, which is a feat given he now has his hands heavily involved with the button-fly of Eames' trousers. 'I've seen that sculpture that the Städel Museum think is a Rodin. Nice work, by the way.'

'This is all beside the point,' Eames says, and when Arthur has his hands inside your underwear, _everything_ else is beside the point. 'The point is that you started all of this. You want to have sex for a noble cause, fine. We are investigating the ethical issues involved in the act of screwing one’s coworkers.'

He manages to unzip Arthur's trousers, and grins as filthy as he knows how. 'Discuss.'

Arthur glares at him. ‘What’s our null hypothesis?’ he demands. ‘I refuse to discuss without collecting appropriate data.’

Eames bites him for that. Just a little bit, on the collarbone. Arthur shudders, and yanks Eames’ trousers so that they fall down around his ankles.

‘This,’ Eames says, taking his hands off Arthur long enough to remove his feet from his pants, ‘is the most unholy coupling I have ever heard of. Science and philosophy ought not to breed.’

Arthur, reaching the bed, sprawls backward onto it, and for a moment Eames entertains the delusion that they can get on with it.

‘Who said anything about breeding?’ Arthur says, propping himself up on his elbows and doing his best to look prim, despite the fact that his hair is dishevelled and his neck bitten and his underwear-clad cock is bulging out of his trousers. ‘That’s not a scientifically valid proposition, Eames.’

Eames really wants to punch Arthur right now, but he wants to fuck him even more. He straddles Arthur’s lap and pushes him down onto the bed. ‘The null is that there is nothing wrong with sleeping with your coworkers. Are you happy now?’

Arthur smirks up at him. ‘Mr Eames, remove my pants and fuck me. Please.’

Eames slithers down the length of Arthur’s body and pauses, hands hovering over Arthur’s belt. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he says, and Arthur looks horrified. ‘ _That_ is the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.’

‘I don’t know,’ Arthur muses, lifting his hips so that Eames can slide the trousers off him. ‘What scale are you measuring that on? Can you show me a graph?’

Eames decides to try an experiment of his own. His hypothesis is that sucking Arthur off might, just possibly, shut him up.

It does. Eames will be perfectly happy to repeat this experiment for the sake of accurate data.


End file.
